The Clockwork of Dreams

There is a ticking clicking ratchet hatchet

in the buzzing drone that sleeps me slowly

up to the neck of the rich hiss that

finds time sliding quietly out of reach.


There are gamelans that make clockish sounds,

yet pretty, running like rats across the richest chimes

that rhyme the ebb and flow of dreams that puzzle

and dreams that follow fleeting shadows of memory.


For I am the metronome of all that haunts you

and I am the keeper of what you thought you saw and did

and I will remember the odd thought and skewed logic

that dredges past and future from within.


So be the dancer who taps a dream to life

the drummer who measures the moment's span

the cello's human voice, rasping but harmonic

the intricate stop-start machine of gamelan.


In sleep, live the life unlived, perfect and parallel

till you roll with the music teacher of the soul

till you turn in waves of incessant, crazy rhythm

and find yourself entirely in the clockwork of dreams.